


In Time for Tea

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Homecoming, Nonverbal Communication, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 09:26:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre returns from his trip earlier than expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Time for Tea

In bouts of increasing anxiety, some individuals find it more practical to fully apply themselves to a certain activity in order to preoccupy their unsettled minds. This habit which shadows their darker selves is a result of two things — that of the desire to be productive in their suffering, and the desire to forget. Enjolras was one such person, though rarely did his personal sufferings ever fuel his industriousness. His tragedies often merged with the sublime, but since this particular moment was not such, he resolved to channel his energy to the means to achieve it.

He had been writing since last night. Letters from Lyons arrived yesterday bearing troubling news of violent clamors for higher wages. As is the nature of things, when the price of workers’ wares dropped, so did their wages. Workers are often looked upon as single entities, and the slight to one when he has been turned them away means employ for another; there is no grandiosity to it. It is when an action slights more than one man does a cry reach many listening ears, and when a cry is heard, more join in its cacophony. Soon there is an uprising. Enjolras could feel the tremors from the South, and he hastily wrote to their contacts to temper the small riots until such time when their efforts could deal the hardest blow.

He was well on his way in the fourth draft when footsteps drifted from the hallway. There were two sets of steps — the first, heavy from carrying luggage, clumsy, lazy, and carelessly tread; the second was familiar, controlled, steady, almost silent. He knew it by heart. This startled Enjolras from his present task. He looked up from his letters and bore his eyes at the door. He was momentarily confused, but with the expectation of complete happiness if he were to be right, Enjolras rushed to the door, his letters momentarily forgotten. Just as the knob began to turn, he had grabbed hold of it, ripped the door open, and thrust his wide-eyed face outside to meet the man in the hallway.

Combeferre was equally surprised to see him.

He had stepped back. The sudden motion of the door, the violence at which it swung open, and the blurry image of a man hurtling towards him had sent him reeling back, but upon recognizing Enjolras, his face gave way to relief and amusement. It however did not hide the markings of wear etched on his face. Combeferre was harrowed, gaunt, and devoid of the healthy countenance that was permanently set on his face. His hair stuck to his forehead, and under his eyes were the clear sign of lack of sleep. Combeferre looked as if he was about to fall over from exhaustion.

“I trust your trip went well?” Enjolras ventured to ask. Combeferre gave him a tired smile. “To an effect, yes.” He quickly turned to the porter and instructed him to leave his portmanteaux beside the book shelf. The gruff man came in, did his task, asked for his fee, and bid Combeferre good night. When Combeferre closed the door, he noticed that Enjolras had not moved from his spot.

“I had it in mind that you were to be gone for 10 more days.”

“You have counted?”

Enjolras’s lips curled up slightly, and on getting no answer, so did Combeferre’s; it was their way. Instead, Enjolras applied himself to arranging the shelved books that had been unsettled by the porter’s workings. “Courfeyrac does not lax in reminding me,” he said. “I find it very fortunate that when one of you is away, the other is still in Paris to keep me company. It is,” he turned to Combeferre, “a pleasant coincidence.”

Combeferre looked as innocent as he could attempt. He was not completely averse to confessing but only thought it prudent to not impose their worries upon their friend. If it were to be called a suffering, it was something they would gladly bear, but it was not. He was about to steer the conversation to safer matters when a familiar smell permeated the air. “Did you have a visitor?” he asked, to which Enjolras furrowed his brows in inquiry. “I can smell tea.” Enjolras whipped around to see the fresh cup of tea still steaming with Combeferre’s favourite brew. “Ah, that is mine,” he revealed as he strode to the table. He looped a finger on the cup handle and brought it to his lips. “The drink is good for this weather.”

Combeferre gave him an inscrutable look. “Since when did you cease to find tea abominable?” he asked. “You’ve always said that it was a weak substance.”

Enjolras only shrugged. “It is good for the weather.”

“Ah. And is that my brew?”

“Yes.”

“May I have some?”

“Of course.”

— - —

They settled on the table — two cups of warm tea within reach of each other, as if trying to touch but not quite knowing how to begin, two men, two friends, and a long night ahead. Outside, it began to snow.

“I did expect you to return much later,” Enjolras began, to which Combeferre lit up. “I thought so myself! But affairs in Poitiers were settled much quicker than I had expected,” he recounted. “When I arrived, my brother Julien had already seen to the deeds, a remarkable task for someone his age. I merely had to give my approval.” He sighed in relief. “The orchard is well taken care of.”

Combeferre took on that lively countenance that so often appeared when he spoke of home. A peaceful expression took over him when he knew that their household affairs were in order. It was a reassurance that his extended absence, be it permanent or otherwise, would not prove troublesome for his loved ones. Enjolras gazed upon him fondly and let him tell his tale. To others, Combeferre’s voice was droll and flat, but it gave him a sense of peace. There were times when he would finally be lulled to sleep after nights of furious activity simply by Combeferre’s voice. His slow, steady cadence made him feel safe. As Combeferre recalled his time away, the harrowed look on his face disappeared perceptibly.

“If matters had settled so smoothly, then why do you look so tired, my friend?” Combeferre raised his brows in inquiry. “You look as if you have not slept in days.”

“Ah, it was the coach ride home,” Combeferre started. “When we were entering Blois, the whiffletree broke and rendered the journey impossible to continue. A second carriage that we could transfer to for such purposes was still far behind. We would have waited for half a day had I not collected a branch and pieces of string to make a temporary bar. I had seen it employed in a book I read; it was not as easy as I thought,” he admitted with a silent chuckle. “In the next town, a few travelers discovered that some of their baggage was missing. Accusations flew and a ruckus would have followed, but upon my questioning the porters extensively, it seemed that a few boxes were merely misdirected to the next village.” He took a sip of the quickly cooling tea. “Not long after, my whiffletree broke, and we had no choice but to transfer to the secondary coach altogether. I assisted in carrying the luggage as much as I could.”

As if recalling the events had summoned the weariness dispersed a while ago, Combeferre leaned back on the chair and sighed. Enjolras gave him a look full of incredulity. “You have been a martyr then! To have done so much during that journey, the coachmen would have done well to compensate you.” To this, Combeferre shook his head. “I was only adamant to get back.”

“Though there was no hurry?” Combeferre took another sip, perhaps because he was thirsty, or because he was trying to hide a smile. “I thought it best be done as soon as possible.”

“Ah.”

“Yes.”

It had always been their way.

“More tea?”

“Of course.”


End file.
